Grace Gibson by The Lost Heir of Devonshire Page A

the garden gate. She had no experience with dalliance, and could not resist his accomplished attentions. She found herself beguiled by the way he managed to brush her fingers with his own when she served his tea. When he greeted her in the morning with a salutation that mentioned the roses in her cheeks, her cheeks responded in kind, by blooming. He was tender in his ministration of her shawl, and engaging in his determination to distract her from her needlework and entertain her with games. His attentions, though slightly particular, did not embarrass her and she was easily enticed to walk with him in the lanes in the morning before he and Will took to their horses.
    Mary began to pay attention to her closet, wearing slippers and silk to dinner instead of her habitual morning dress and walking boots. Upon being complemented by a well-mannered man, she felt a vulnerability that Denley had not elicited in even his politest moments. She was altogether kinder to Oscar Neville than she had been to a man of ten times his consequence. Mary thought she would not be displeased if Oscar Neville were to look on her seriously. This new sensation took her attention far away from the disquieting Marquis of Denley.

Chapter Thirteen
    From the seat of Bromley’s curricle, Lord Robert noticed a pen of black swine next to a small cottage bordering Margill. He could never pass by a pig in the country without recollecting one certain day at the Greenly home farm. He and Mary had argued over whether the smell of pigs was worse than the smell of the back alleys of London. When he flung at her the accusation that, having never been to London, she could hardly be the judge, she had grabbed the nearest youth and furiously set him to washing pigs in the clover patch. In truth, the image of poor Jim Barry running after squealing pigs with a bucket and a brush gave rise to a smile, but that same smile quickly turned to a grimace at the recollection of Miss Mary Fanley’s treachery.
    It wasn’t only Jim Barry who was laughed at by most of Fanley’s tenants. His argument with the mistress of Greenly had not been discreet. By the time the last pig was polished, the tale was spread that the heir of Devonshire’s nose was dainty and that he was squeamish as a girl.
    He had been livid, but determined not to betray his feelings by storming away from the scene. “I believe I am in need of help above stairs,” he yawned. “Send that young man to wait on me. His grooming skills seem promising for what I might need in the country.”
    He had not been sincere of course, but she had taken glee in rubbing salt in the wound by taking him at his word. When Jim had presented himself, nervous but shiningly clean and sweet smelling, he was in a condescending mood and allowed the lad to serve him.
    “Pray, Jim,” he had said while he was helped on with his tight red coat, “is your Mistress always so capricious?”
    “Begging your pardon, sir?” Jim stammered.
    “Is it her habit to have the pigs washed?”
    “Oh, no, sir, that was just a lark of hers, that was. I’m sure she only made me do it on account of me eating one of cook’s pies that was meant for your honour’s dinner.”
    “Fascinating,” Lord Robert said glumly.
    “I beg your pardon?” Susan Bromley asked.
    He was driving Miss Bromley on a pleasure outing along a country road in Somersetshire, and had been caught speaking aloud what he had been thinking.
    “Oh, fascinating!” he said, making a recovery and taking a tighter grip on the traces. Miss Bromley had been talking at length on the subjects which primarily made up her conversation. She specialized in facts about town life she had heard but never experienced, the unfortunate looks and circumstances of all the poor, eligible girls for miles around, and her family’s rank and consequence in the neighbourhood. Lord Robert had been very willing at first to hear all these anecdotes, as she spoke charmingly, but the repetitiveness led